You'll Be Just Fine, Boy
by SexyStripedTie
Summary: Imagine trans boy Dean not realizing he's trans and suffering through the resulting confusion and dysphoria - but then slowly, day by day and piece by very small piece (and thanks, in part, to a very memorable night with Rhonda Hurley), beginning to understand. (tw: vividly written gender dysphoria)


Trans boy Dean who grows up being called Deanna, but who never really likes his name (it tastes wrong on his tongue) or his body (it feels ill-fitting in some vague but fundamental way he can't describe – like the wrong shape got pulled over him, somehow, except he's never known anything else and so he can't articulate this, not yet).

Trans boy Dean who's all right until puberty – _happy_ , even, all things considered – except then he starts growing breasts, and then he starts growing in _all_ the wrong ways, and there's this constant, uncomfortable _burn_ in his chest, almost like pain, almost like shame, that won't go away no matter how many layers he hides under (and it only gets worse if he looks at himself in a mirror).

Trans boy Dean who, once a month, starts bleeding, and it leaves him feeling sick and shaky and wrong and _rooted_ , somehow, chained to something he never asked for nor consented to (the burning feeling gets worse and stays worse, and Dean doesn't understand; it crawls under his skin like a sickness, and Dean wishes, for the first time of many, that he could tear off every single inch and _just be done with everything_ ).

Trans boy Dean who, all throughout high school, avoids getting undressed whenever intimacy is involved; who would much rather have the focus be on his partner and on _their_ body than his own (few partners complain, obviously, and he learns exactly what shuts up those that do – and for those that _insist_ on giving too much back, well, he either breaks things off or bails; the family business never did let them stay in one town long anyway).

Trans boy Dean who drives himself to exhaustion every day and booze-whets his way to unconsciousness every night because he tries, he tries _so hard_ to avoid the question _what the fuck is wrong with me_ and if he lets himself dwell on it for one second, if he doesn't keep his hands busy, his mouth preoccupied, his body active and his heart in pieces, he wonders, desperately, what he might do (if there's even anything he _can_ do).

But ultimately, trans boy Dean who slowly, _very_ slowly, puts together the pieces:

How while Sam gets defensive on his behalf, _furious_ even, every time someone calls him names, or says he looks butch, like a boy, a _guy_ , Dean… doesn't. It doesn't sound so much like an insult, to him. In fact, it sets something aglow inside him that's light and delicate and tentatively _happy_ , and even if he's not sure what to make of it, even if he doesn't tell Sam about it, it sure is a nice feeling (in fact, whenever someone says something along those lines he always ends up carrying himself a little straighter).

How when he lets himself think about _just how much_ he wants to be like dad, he realizes there's a much deeper desire there too, something that settles in his bones in an almost _jealous_ way, like dad has something, maybe _is_ something, that Dean can never – will never be able to – measure up to (and that, of course, is a terrifying thought, but it's also a little relieving in a strange, weird way, because it puts the first etchings of a _definition_ onto what he's feeling – onto what he's craving, what he wants, what he's missing).

How when Rhonda Hurley tosses aside his underwear ( _panties_ , if he's honest, but Dean hates the word) and suggests they try a strap-on, and Dean acquiesces, puts it on, fumbles with it, gets it right, and she looks him over and beams, calls him a _pretty boy_ – christ, it had felt dirty and kinky as fuck at first, but she says those words and something _lights up_ inside him, fierce and euphoric and completely unexpected.

He has some of the best sex he's ever had that night, but more than that, he _realizes_ – certainly not everything (he's gotten too used to feeling too much to be that introspective), but _enough_. Enough for a start. For a step in the right direction. He doesn't realize everything, not by a longshot, but he does realize that there's more out there than he knows, and maybe, just _maybe_ , if he's smart about it and lucky as hell – maybe this is something he can actually figure out.

Maybe he can be okay again. Maybe, _just_ maybe, he's not broken.


End file.
